Along the Jagged Road
by bethsaida
Summary: For a gladiator, old habits die hard. Cassia must decide if a new relationship can survive the walls Milo has built around himself. Post-movie AU; one-shot.


_North of the city of Lugdunum, somewhere in central France_

The rainclouds had been pelting them for almost an hour by the time they reached the threshold of the inn, their cloaks dripping and flecked with mud. The mantel over the door was splintered and the outer walls were streaked with what looked like months of grime, but the roof appeared stable, which at the moment was all Cassia cared about. Weeks of journeying with Milo had made her grow used to sleeping outside or sleeping in the saddle. But right now she would just as soon stare at a thatched ceiling. Unlike in Italy, autumn rains in Gaul were cold and untempered by mild breezes from the sea. Yet even here, more than a thousand miles from Pompeii, they brought back reminders of hot ash and pumice pouring from the sky.

An overzealous stable boy had rushed outside to take charge of Vires almost as soon as Milo had dismounted. The last she had seen of the stallion, he was chewing contentedly on the second of four apples from the boy's pockets. Milo had let slip a rare smile at the sight; they both knew in all likelihood Vires would be more comfortable than they would be. At any rate, they wouldn't be inside for long. No traveler in his right mind would risk the danger of spending a night at an inn beside a Roman highway, much less one in the middle of nowhere. They had only stopped to wait out the storm.

Inside the tavern was grey and smoky, except for an orange glow emanating from the hearth at the center. Barely half a dozen people were milling around the bar. But after trading a few words with the innkeeper in exchange for a couple mugs of ale, Milo touched her back and maneuvered to a table near the far end, beyond the light of the flames. Milo disliked being the center of attention. It was a custom of his, sitting in the farthest corner and keeping to the sides of streets whenever they passed through a city. In anyone else she would have attributed it to natural shyness. But there was a wariness about him. Cassia knew he sat in the corner so he could see and size up everyone who walked inside, anticipating a potential threat.

She didn't blame him for it. Neither of them wanted a repeat of the incident in Axima, when a boisterous customer could have sworn Milo looked just like the invincible Celt who had killed nine armored men with nothing but a dagger at the Floralia festival the year before. The man himself was probably harmless, he only seemed interested in shooting off his mouth, but if anyone less drunk had heard him and taken him seriously...They had avoided public spaces for almost a month after that.

Cassia had not asked Milo about the truth of the drunkard's account. He never talked about his time in the Roman arenas. Cassia was unwilling to bring it up because she knew he would rather forget it and because, frankly, she enjoyed being in the company of someone quiet. In Rome she had been surrounded by wise men eager to share their vast stores of knowledge—after all, what could a girl who had spent her entire life in a holiday town like Pompeii possibly know of the world? And there were the vultures, watching for anyone to stumble so they could climb higher over the backs of the fallen. Everyone was fighting to be _heard_ in Rome. It should have been easier to fade into the background in a city that large. But there was always someone who found her. She had told Milo that once and saw a flicker of relief in his brown eyes, that she shared his desire to disappear.

When the innkeeper approached with a loaf of brown bread and a hunk of goat cheese, Cassia noticed Milo straighten just slightly. The innkeeper, a brusque, broad-shouldered man with brown hair just beginning to grey, didn't spare either of them much attention, except to add with gruff civility, _Eight coppers, with the ale_, which Milo slid across the table. If the innkeeper had been looking more closely, he would have noticed Milo kept his right hand underneath the table, where he could reach his sidearm. During the brief exchange Milo hadn't looked at the innkeeper's face, only his hands, another small reminder that he trusted no one. Cassia suspected he had not fully trusted anyone for a long time, but she sensed that he was trying very hard to give her what trust he had left.

He would have felt safer keeping her at arm's length. She hadn't forgotten how he recoiled from her the evening they escaped Pompeii, when she had asked to look at his back. Only after she had patiently explained the reason three times did he peel off his shirt, and then with tight-lipped reluctance. Neither of them had spoken while she cleaned the ash and dirt from his ripped skin, all fifteen gashes and thirty-seven scars. Milo had not wanted her to know that the night she had seen him flogged in the courtyard was not the first time he had been beaten more savagely than an animal.

Sometimes, a flash of guarded skepticism would pass across his face when they stretched out to sleep over the cold earth, with only their cloaks for blankets and the wind screaming outside whatever hollow they found for shelter: _How much longer, before you decide this life is not for you?_

And yet in all fairness, she knew Milo was not the only one holding back. For all the things Cassia wanted to say to him, there were a few she would rather not. She wondered if he could forgive the oblivious girl who for almost nineteen years had never thought to question the games her parents used to build their legacy. She was hesitant to talk about Pompeii, or her family, or the horrible jolt of waking up every morning and remembering why she was not in her bed. Milo understood the pain of losing one's home, but he would never see Pompeii as anything but another city that sold death as entertainment. Deep down, he could not help but feel some measure of justice in its destruction.

_If we ever cross the sea_, she thought, taking a sip of ale and feeling its sourness tingle in her throat as the warmth spread inside her chest. At first she had hoped that following Milo out of Italy would be enough to ease his doubts. Later, she had looked ahead to Britannia. Once the ocean cut them off from the continent, perhaps then he would begin to understand that she had not followed him on a whim of desperation or girlish fancy. But they were a long way from the coast, and there was no guarantee they would find passage once they reached the shore. Meanwhile it would be very easy for him to mistake her reticence for indifference. Milo was a careful man; he would leave her before giving her the chance to hurt him.

"Aren't you hungry?" Milo asked. The innkeeper had disappeared somewhere beyond the kitchen door, and Milo hadn't moved to slice the bread. It was unlike him to leave food untouched for so long; when they first met he had eaten quickly and furtively, as though convinced someone would attempt to snatch it away.

"Starving," she replied, then instantly regretted the choice of words. She had never been properly starving. Even on the most difficult stretches of their journey, they had never gone a day without eating something. If Milo was bothered by her slip, he didn't show it. "You were watching that man, in the burgundy cloak?" she asked to change the subject.

"Some. He's been turning to look at the door every couple minutes since we stepped inside," Milo said. He frowned as he tore off a hunk of bread, though he made an effort to shrug it off. "It's probably nothing."

"You look troubled," he said after a beat. She glanced down and saw that he had slipped a thick slice across the table without her noticing. In the space that followed, she almost answered, _No, of course not_, but caught the words on her tongue.

"A little," she replied. Cassia lowered her mug to the table, knowing it was long past time to end the stalemate between them, but uncertain what waited on the other side. _You need to understand I can't promise you anything_, Milo had told her the day they passed through Assisium, the last city where she had any living relations. _You can_, she remembered answering firmly. _You can promise you will not push me away._ In all the weeks since then, she had never deliberately put him in a position where he would be tempted to break that promise. As calmly as possible, she looked back at him. "I need to ask your advice on something," she began slowly. "After you saw your home destroyed, how long did it take before the pain began to dull?"

Milo glanced to the side, and she thought she had pushed him too far, but something in his expression softened when he said, "I'm surprised you waited this long to ask."


End file.
